Page 147 of The Illicit Play
Shit. There’s so much to confess.
My stomach starts to hurt as I plunk myself onto the edge of the bed, perching my heels on the frame and staring at those photos.
Cleo will send these to my parents if I don’t pay her off.
She’s obviously got a stockpile, and I will continue to be her prisoner until she runs out of them. Who knows if she’s even deleting them each time I pay her?
Probably not. She’s smarter than that.
I’m the stupid one who let her play me because I needed to become something else.
Letting out a shaky breath, I flick through those images, one after another. They’re so awful. If my parentssee these with no explanation attached, they’ll be wrecked.
They’ll be wrecked either way. You’re not their little angel anymore.
And Cleo knows it, because I told her everything. She knows I’m a trust fund baby and that my family is loaded. She knows about my monthly allowance, which is more than what she earns in a year. Her bitter tone rings through my head.
That’s why she’s coming after me. Because she knows I’ll pay up.
Shit, she owns me.
And until I take her greatest threat away… she willalwaysown me.
A cold shudder runs through my body. I’m so spent after my harrowing afternoon confession, but I’ll never be truly free until I endure one more.
“I really want to be free,” I whisper, my mind going back to the forest… to Grady.
I was free there.
I was happy.
I was…me.
“But they don’t know me.” I think about my family—my brother… my parents.
How were they ever supposed to when I kept putting on a show the way I did?
Am I seriously going to keep spending the rest of my life doing that?
Letting Cleo have this hold over me?
Letting myself be ruled by my parents’ expectations?
I may not know exactly what I want right now—but I do know that I don’t want that.
They’re gonna be horrified either way, but maybe if they hear the truth from me first, it’ll be easier for them to handle.
Just like… maybe if Grady and I had talked to Wily first, rather than him catching us, it would have been less traumatic for him.
Sniffing, I slash a tear off my cheek, and before another panic attack sets in for real, I dial my father’s number.
“Hello?” His voice is groggy, but the second he hears my pitiful whimper, he’s alert and saying my name. “Blakey? Bean, what’s wrong?”
“Is that Blake? Is she okay?” Mom’s voice pitches. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t said anything yet?”
“Well, why not? Why is she calling us so late? Oh my gosh, is Wily okay?” Her voice quakes, panic obviously nipping at her.
